


Highschool Sweetheart

by ArmsShanks



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dumb Crushes, M/M, Teacher AU, yeah this is pretty gen idk what to put here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/pseuds/ArmsShanks
Summary: Mr. Rutledge is staring at Mr. Fawkes again.





	Highschool Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MurasakiDoku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurasakiDoku/gifts), [Thyme_Basalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyme_Basalt/gifts).



> Summer fic exchange fun times.
> 
> Prompts: Teacher AU / Roadhog is the one with the doki dokis

Mr. Rutledge is staring at Mr. Fawkes again.

He doesn’t often get the chance, to be fair. Fawkes rarely takes his lunch in the teacher’s lounge like the rest of them. God only knows where he spends his time while not in class. He’s here now though, watching the coffee maker like a hawk waiting until its prey peeks out from its nest. Only the twitching of his flesh hand betrays his lack of patience.

Fawkes hasn’t dressed up for the occasion. His burnt shop apron is still tied around his waist though it’s currently draped down, revealing an off-white tank top. Others give him a wide berth and dirty looks during an hour where normally people would be lining up at the coffee maker.

Mr. Rutledge is looking at him too, but not for the same reasons.

The direction of his gaze is presumably well obscured; his glasses today have thick rims and without a closer inspection, most people would assume he’s reading the hefty hardcover he’s holding open in front of him. Most know better than to bother him while he’s on break, and few would want to anyway.

Mako Rutledge, senior year English teacher had carefully cultivated a reputation and it certainly paid off. With no one looking to socialize or even join his table, he was free to stare with abandon at the elusive Jamison Fawkes, shop teacher and engineering enthusiast.

The man is an enigma. The shop teacher is younger than any of the other academics by spades, and if Mr. Rutledge cared to talk to anyone else, he’d be curious how someone who looked like they were barely out of college was missing two limbs and working in an institution of learning. Mr. Fawkes has prosthetics where his right leg and arm once presumably were, They’re far too clunky and shoddy to be anything a doctor would send their patient out into the world with, which fit with the rumour that he’d made them himself. He has dirty blonde hair that licked upwards with little regard for gravity and sunken, round eyes. At present, Mr. Rutledge has better things to look at, like the view afforded to him by the threadbare tanktop. Mr. Fawkes is _impossibly_ fit. His lithe upper body sports taunt abs and exactly zero body fat, a fact that would likely worry Mr. Rutledge if he wasn’t so preoccupied.

Mr. Rutledge turns a page and resettles, attempting to keep up the charade as he tilts his head just a shade to the right to get a better view. Mr. Fawkes’ hunched posture is making the tanktop hang some distance from his lower chest, and with the right angle Mr. Rutledge can see a marvelous landscape-

The coffee maker finishes, and Mr. Fawkes springs into action so fast it nearly makes Mr. Rutledge jump. So much for his view. Mr. Fawkes grabs the largest mug in the cupboard - it’s emblazoned with a photo of Mrs. Roderick’s family and says “Happy Mothers Day” in a colourful font - and fills it to the rim. He downs half of it immediately, the dark and unsweetened liquid running down his pointed chin. He fills it back up with the rest of the coffee and then lurches out of the room, somehow not spilling a drop from the mug. Mrs. Roderick glares at his back almost as intensely as Mr. Rutledge does.

When the door closes, portions of the room breathe a sigh of relief. The coffee maker is reset. Mr. Rutledge’s eyes return to the book in front of him, but he can’t bring himself to read any of the words. The other teachers’ complaints are drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He might be blushing.

The book is slammed shut, which draws curious eyes for only a second before they are averted. The massive teacher decides he can finish his break elsewhere while he calms himself.

Mr. Rutledge really needs to get his crush under control.

 

\---

 

Here’s how it starts.

Mr. Rutledge always parks in the same spot. It’s under a nice shady tree that keeps his precious ride from being overly hot when he gets out of work. The lovingly custom crafted seats of his motorcycle would be mild and the metal of the gas tank would not burn through the fabric of his pants. No one bothered to challenge him for the spot. It suits him well.

When he arrived on one mid-March Monday morning, his spot was taken.

Mr. Rutledge paused, motorcycle softly growling his displeasure for him. The car in his spot was a ‘99 Toyota Corolla that he didn’t recognize, for certainly he would have recognized if this machine belonged to any of his colleagues. It was patterned and patched up, with fixes welded openly around the wheel wells and doors. The rear was covered with a mess of bumper stickers that clashed violently in both colour and subject matter. Slogans both for and against war, opposite political parties, hunting, religion, and veganism clashed with one another, topped by declarations of which university a nameless daughter went to, and a call to raise awareness of chemtrails. It was hard to look away from the mess.

He slowly tore his eyes away, a dark voice in his head grumbling thick bass curses. He steers his ride into the spot next to the wreck of a car. When he got a chance he would ask the other faculty members who the hell this belonged to-

The door to the car opens and a head pops into view from over the roof of the car. Out steps a man who looks wholly unlike any man Mr. Rutledge has ever seen. He’s tall; a good portion of his body raises above the sun-baked metal of the vehicle and the heat patterns make him look half mirage. His hair is swept back in complete disarray which somehow manages to look perfectly calculated for dramatic affect to accentuate his narrow, sharp features. His sunglasses perched on his pointy nose; Mako is frozen as that dark glassy gaze turns his way.

There’s a pause. Mako has his helmet half off and despite the warm weather, he’s frozen. He’s not sure what’s happening to him and his hands sweat inside of his riding gloves.

The stranger drops his sunglasses and looks directly at Mako. His eyes are honest-to-god orange and they match the freckles dusting his cheeks and holy shit he’s saying something-

“-a real beaut!”

“W-what?” Mr. Rutledge stammers in response. Mr. Rutledge doesn’t stammer. Mr. Rutledge has never stammered.

“Your ride,” the man says, and now he is walking around the car and now he’s standing right next to him and his skin is so very pale save for errant grease marks smeared over the freckles and Mr. Rutledge can’t breathe.

“Your bike! What a beast. She custom?”

The stranger is talking about the bike. Of course he’s talking about the bike. He certainly wouldn’t be talking about anyone else.

“Yeah.”

“Beautiful.”

The man is circling the bike like a particularly playful predator, admiring its custom angles and decorative flair. Mr. Rutledge does not have many hobbies, so this is where his money most often goes. He watches the way the man’s hands twitch to touch, but wisely do not. There’s a manic grin on his face that comes off more adoring than strange as he inspects the machine. Mr. Rutledge watches, still stunned. His eyes are drawn to the curve of the man’s shoulder blades and the way his eyes shine in the morning sun.

“Would love to take a closer look some-”

A bell rings and the man nearly jumps. “Christ, I better get goin’. Wouldn’t do to be late on my first day!”

The man gives a cheery wave and dashes off towards the school. His gait is odd and the pants falling over one leg leave an awkward silhouette: it must be a prosthetic. Mako stares after him for a moment. When another bell rings a moment later, he promptly asks himself what the fuck just happened and rubs his cheeks out of some unknown reflex.

His face feels hot. What the fuck.

The vision of man’s slender fingers and bright eyes clings to his eyelids and he rubs harder.

_What the fuck._

 

\---

 

It takes Mr. Rutledge quite some time to admit he has a crush.

In his defense, he is forty-eight. He can’t remember having many crushes back in his younger years full of leather jackets and the buzz of tattoo needles. This revelation is hard fought once the word has come to mind, but there really can be no other name for it.

After that day he quickly learns that the stranger’s name is Mr. Fawkes, and he is the new shop teacher. He is wiry and odd. The other teachers hate him for his loud voice and questionable hygiene. The students love him because he swears like a sailor and comes up with interesting projects to make. Mako would wonder how he got hired at all, looking as young as he did, but he’s spied Principal Amari and him having tea on two separate occasions so there must be something there, odd as the pair looked.

Mr. Rutledge sneaks a look at the man’s first name: Jamison. He plugs it into google after a week of shaking the feeling of being a creep. He finds more than one mugshot. A younger Mr. Fawkes is grinning at the camera with considerably more piercings than he currently sports and a messed up mohawk. Mako tears his eyes away from the pictures when he can feel his face heating. The only website results are write ups about catching the local vagabond who had been defacing monuments and institutions; looks like the arrests weren’t for anything serious then. Mr. Rutledge feels a sense of relief though he has no idea why.

The English teacher continues to do things as he has always done. He looms over his students, making sure they do their readings more effectively than any other teacher in the school. He works on his motorcycle and tends to a small vegetable garden in his backyard. He spends his evenings alone with his pet kunekune in a medium sized home and prepares his vegan meals. He occasionally treats himself to a glass of wine when memories of the past make him just a bit disappointed of who he ended up being.

He no longer parks in that shady spot though. He deals with the burning seat and the overheated handlebars and he looks at the newest bumper sticker on the ‘99 Corolla. A Support Our Troops! with a brazen American flag has appeared, tucked under a large anarchy symbol. _He must have had to order that one online…_ Mr. Rutledge’s lips quirk in a rare smile as he starts his bike up.

He is forced to admit his problem when he nearly places a transparency on the projector for his students about the themes of Pride and Prejudice. He freezes when it’s halfway on and then yanks it back. Apparently at some point he absentmindedly markered-in some hearts around a scrawled ' _fawkes'_. He doesn’t even remember doing that. He’s disgusted but the gravelly voice in his head laughs uproariously at the situation. He hastily wipes away the writing with his sleeve before replacing the transparency on the projector, for once glad that his students are too bored to be watching carefully.

Even if he’d written it in satire, or in jest, Mr. Rutledge still wrote it for some reason and that reason was he has a big, stupid, fat crush on Mr. Fawkes.

 _You’re so screwed_ , says the voice. Mako is inclined to agree.

He tries to ignore it; it should be easy. It’s not like they run into each other often. Mr. Fawkes denies probability and finds ways to creep into his periphery anyway, and Mr. Rutledge can’t help but stare.

He catches Mr. Fawkes slipping a bill into the locker slats of a kid who always looks particularly poorly dressed and under-fed. He helps students lug irrationally large constructions through the halls. He volunteers to substitute in for art classes, which turns into him being brought into consult so the students experience more than pastel drawings and study of classic painting techniques. When the students have their yearly art show, it is populated not just with canvases, but with twisted pieces of melded and molded metal.

Mr. Rutledge has never seen Mr. Fawkes not smiling while at the school. He doesn’t feel like a teacher. He feels like someone who has wandered far and wide and only just found their calling and a place to rest their head.

Mr. Rutledge is also an English teacher who breaks down literary symbolism and finding meaning in otherwise simple tales, and so he might be reading too much into things.

He wants to talk to the man, once he finally admits his fascination to himself. Well, maybe not talk so much as listen. Mr. Rutledge rarely talks outside of his class. He wants stories to pick apart from his favourite subject; he doesn’t feel he has much to share that would interest the kind of man with multiple arrests and a tattoo of a flaming trash can discreetly hidden on his lower back. Mr. Rutledge doesn’t even know if the other teacher is gay, or if he’d be the type to not be skeeved out by an older man showing interest. So he keeps to himself, much as he always does, and makes up his own stories.

Mr. Fawkes is an orphan delinquent who got scared after one scrape too close to the law and turned himself around and into a teacher.

Mr. Fawkes is a long lost thrice removed relative of Mrs. Amari, plucked out of poverty and given a job with his talents.

Mr. Fawkes is on the run from a law with a fake name living a new life as a teacher to be as misleading as possible.

Mr. Fawkes showed up in his dream last night and Mr. Rutledge wakes up terrified and hard and he knows he needs to do something. He has a frustrating shower and accidentally puts on the same shirt he wore yesterday, all the while wishing it was Friday and not the miserable, wretched Tuesday that it was.

 _Just need to talk to him. Get rid of this ridiculous tension._ A voice somehow more monotone and gruff than his usual affect rolls around in his brain. _You’re building up something that isn’t there._

“Need an excuse.” Mr. Rutledge’s voice is almost soft in the wake of his own reflection. “Or I’m gonna look like a creep.” He scratches his expansive gut and sighs at his tired visage.

_Stop it; you’re a prime specimen. And he’s a goddamn coworker. Make it work._

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters. There’s no real bite in the derogatory statement; he doesn’t dislike how he looks; he just knows how easy his appearances can be made fun of by modern standards; working with a pack of teenagers made that quite apparent. He takes care that his light hair is always neat and glossy, tied up in a neat ponytail. His ashy gray glasses frames are tailored to harmonize with the darker tips of his silvery hair, creating a formal but striking look against his dark skin. They sit on his broad nose and over small eyes. Perhaps his closet full of yawn-inducing sweater vests and long sleeved dress shirts left something to be desired, but he was afforded little other choice given his size and profession. He straightens a button, thick lips quirking in a scowl.

With a huff, he leaves his house and straddles his bike.

_“Beautiful.”_

The reedy voice comes to mind from their one and only interaction as he starts up the machine.

_“Would love to take a closer look some-”_

Mr. Rutledge gets an idea.

 

\---

 

The last few stragglers coming out of shop class duck past him in confusion as the English teacher stands by the doors with his arms crossed and his glasses half down his nose. It takes another minute before Jamison Fawkes stumbles out of the room, even more dishevelled than usual. It’s a hot day and sweat glistens on the man’s brow. When he sees who’s waiting for him, he starts.

“O-G’day there!”

Mr. Fawkes smiles like the sun and Mr. Rutledge’s heart is in his throat and he immediately regrets everything.

Orange eyes blink up at him and one bushy eyebrow slowly raises quizzically.

“Bike.” something in Mr. Rutledge’s head forces him to nearly bark out. He quickly reins himself in. “My bike. It’s broken. Heard you were good at fixing things.”

 _Smooth_.

“R-roight! ‘Course I am. Fixing things is me middle name!”

_S m o o t h._

Mr. Rutledge tells his brain to shut up as Mr. Fawkes fumbles his keys to lock up the classroom. The younger man’s mouth is off like it’s a race and it’s all Mr. Rutledge can do to put one foot in front of the other to follow him down the hall and outside.

“Sorry to hear about ‘er, she always seems to be runnin’ so smoothly! Who’s your usual mechanic? They outta town? Glad to be of help either way! Honoured, really!”

“Hrmm,” Mr. Rutledge doesn’t quite respond. He catches Mr. Fawkes’ eyes darting to him ever so often as they cross the walk to their usual meeting place. His freckles stand out wonderfully in the warm cast of the afternoon sun.

“Poor girl, beautiful as ever though.” Mr. Fawkes kneels down beside the bike, which at some point they have made their way to. “Mind startin’ her up?”

Mr. Rutledge grabs his keys and does as he’s told, starting up his dear motorcycle. Something rattles, terrible and loose from her innards. His inner voice practically recoils at the sound.

Mr. Fawkes sucks air between his teeth in a light whistle. He listens for a couple seconds, then motions to turn it off. He pops up and over to his car, lifting the trunk and sticking his head in. The bumper stickers have started to encroach on its territory, as a rainbow emblazoned ‘ _I’m so gay I can’t even drive straight_ ’ vinyl is displayed proudly in the centre of the surface. Mr. Rutledge hopes it’s true.

Mr. Fawkes brings out a toolbox covered in rust and sits down on the ground beside the bike. His aimless chatter falls off as he dutifully starts poking and prodding and looking for the problem. Mako’s voice is in his throat; he hasn’t turned this into the social opportunity he was hoping for. This hasn’t sparked any revelations or relief. Mostly he’s just staring like an asshole and enjoying being close to someone who isn’t fifteen.

“Ah, found yer problem!”

Shit, that was fast. His inner voice sounds legitimately impressed. Mr. Fawkes starts on about a missing bolt that Mako knows of rather well as it’s currently sitting in his pocket.

“Not sure how it got out but, should be pretty cheap to find at any ole auto store. It’ll run fine for a bit but I wouldn’t let it go on like that; it’ll wear at the belt. Need any help with the installation?”

Mr. Fawkes runs at the mouth again as he replaces the casing he’d removed to find the issue and straightens to his impressive height. The last question hangs as he looks up, a bit hopefully, at Mako’s face. Maybe he’s imagining the hope. Probably.

_Answer him you idiot._

“I-”

“Want to get a coffee?”

Mr. Fawkes’ voice interrupts him, but it sounds so strange that it takes Mr. Rutledge a second to parse the words. His tone had turned drastically upwards into a near-squeak at the end of the sentence. Mako blinks in response, looking down through his glasses at the greasy, handsome and fidgeting man.

What.

_SAY YES, DUMBASS._

“S… Sorry mate, guess I was reading signals wro-”

“Yes.” Mako interrupts the unnaturally reproachful withdrawal.

“Eh?”

“Coffee,” says Mr. Rutledge. He can’t help but think back to the teacher’s lounge. “Yes. Let’s do coffee.”

Mr. Rutledge pushes up his glasses in an effort to hide at least some part of his face from the other man whose face is slowly being torn by a grin more wide and manic than any he’d worn yet. “I knew it!”

Mako makes a sound somewhere between questioning and noncommittal acknowledgement. Jamison’s crooked expression is far too close to him. “Did ya really fuckin’ pull a piece out of yer baby just to talk to me? Really?”

Mr. Rutledge makes a smaller, even more noncommittal sound, drawing back slightly. He should have taken a different piece, something a bit easier to get fucked up by daily use. Shit shit.

“Ya coulda just asked! Like I don’t see ya leerin’ all up on me like some old pervy Romeo.”

“Oh my god,” Mako managers to mutters in revulsion, apology, and disgust all at once.

Jamison honest-to-god cackles and leans on his car, elbows resting on the dented hood. “See what I did there? Fuckin’ literary reference. That’s your thing, innit?”

“That was... _barely_ a literary reference.” Mr. Rutledge is experiencing physical pain. “That was the laziest and most inept literary reference one could attempt.”

“All that and more can be yours if you totally still want to date me.” Mr. Fawkes finger guns in his direction, still leaning back against the car. It’s so ridiculous and adorable and obnoxious. Jamison’s teeth are terrible and his canines are too sharp. He’s gangly and his voice is annoying. The hazy bokeh and rose tint is already starting to fade from his crush.

Mr. Rutledge has never liked him more.

“Dating? I thought we were just getting coffee.” Mako eyes him, feeling for once like his feet are finally back under him. He towers over the other man who clearly isn’t used to being towered over. Mako sees his adam’s apple bob.

“You know what I meant,” Mr. Fawkes snarks back, but quieter. “A hot guy in glasses distracted me. Not my fault.”

“Idiot,” says Mr. Rutledge. He puts his hand on the rusted corner of the car roof.

“Creep,” says Mr. Fawkes. He leans forward, not afraid of Mako taking up his space.

Mr. Rutledge kisses Mr. Fawkes, because it feels like the most natural to do after breathing insults into each other’s faces. It lasts for a scant few seconds before something crawls up the back of Mako’s neck. It’s the same feeling that tells him when to look up to catch a student cheating, or that someone is texting during class. It makes him pull back and looks into the parking lot, where a bus full of students is waiting to turn out onto the street. There are more than a few phones pointed in their direction.

“Fuck.”

 _Fuck_.

“Fuck!” Mr. Fawkes trills. He casually shoves one hand in Mako’s back pocket and waves to the cameras with the other. One of the kids lets out a whoop.

Mr. Rutledge stands there with his crush on his arm and a bolt in his pocket and desperately hopes he gets fired before tomorrow.


End file.
